


A Bad Combination In The Dark

by perpetuallycaffeinated



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Dark Will, Desk Sex, Frottage, God Complex, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetuallycaffeinated/pseuds/perpetuallycaffeinated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a nerve wracked Will Graham accidentally cuts his hand on Dr. Lecter's letter opener, things quickly get out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bad Combination In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Tumblr that requested sensual bloodplay that started out innocently and escalated. Is canon-compliant with and contains spoilers up and including episode 1.10. The title comes from the lyrics of The Black Keys "Sinister Kid," which was playing on a loop while I wrote this. Un-betaed, so if you see a problem, please tell me!

“My name is Will Graham.”

The pen scratches across the smooth page of Dr. Lecter’s moleskine with a jagged, uneven rhythm.

 

“It is nine fifteen pm.”

 

Hannibal keeps his face perfectly composed, but his mind races as Will goes through the exercise. Does part of the agent know that there’s something grievously wrong with his drawings? Hannibal always has him draw them in the same notebook, but Will has yet to try and flip through other pages.

 

Does he suspect, on some level, what he would find?

 

“I am in Baltimore-- _Baltimore, Maryland_.”

 

Will grits his teeth, his whole body trembling as he finishes the final part of his affirmation. He spits out the final words and slams the notebook closed. However, to his credit, he aborts his movement to throw it across the room, instead choosing to delicately slide it towards Hannibal on the opposite side of the table. Dr Lecter feels a small tendril of affection uncurl in his chest.

 

“An admirable effort, Will,” he says, cracking the book open to take a look at the latest inventory of Will’s spatial comprehension. The clock is more mangled than ever, some of the numbers barely on the page. He will have to cement his place as Will’s moorings quickly, Hannibal muses quietly; before long, the swelling in Will’s head will threaten to take his newest treasure away from him.

 

“It’s not ‘an admirable effort,’” Will spits back, squirming in Hannibal’s office chair. He’d flopped into the monstrosity one day during a fit of pacing, and had never again gone back to the normal chairs usually reserved for the doctor’s psychiatric patients. Hannibal did not blame him, nor begrudge him for usurping his throne. It was truly the finest chair in the office, and he could not deny how it felt to see the young man sprawled out in the heart of his kingdom. Will was so close to becoming his, just as completely owned as his fine drawing implements, his leather-bound books.

 

His perfectly sharpened letter opener.

 

“I do this, I do this every day and all it does is let me know how much time I can’t keep track-- _shit!_ ”

 

Driven to lash out in his ( _beautiful_ ) rage, Will grabs at the letter opener’s blade. It is shaped to resemble a small sword. It is also, Will has found out, sharpened to the same degree. The second after his hand closes around it in a fist he curses in surprise, and Hannibal is hit with the smell of fresh blood. It is impossible to ignore, so close and paired with Will’s divine expression of pain mixed with surprise. It is the face of Eve discovering her error as she sinks her teeth into the apple.

 

Hannibal pictures Will’s tender flesh splitting for the blade’s edge as ripe fruit parts for frantic teeth, as thighs part for a lover’s attention, and he feels his cock stir in his trousers.

 

Will makes another pained sound as he drops the letter opener onto the desk, and Hannibal knows that he is lost. He is a man of discipline and restraint. There is never a situation that is out of his control. He is a god secure in his castle, but Will is sprawled out on his throne, lifeblood lazily snaking down his palm and the delicate curve of his wrist. If Will blots it out on a tissue, if he lets it drop untasted onto the floor, it will be more than just a waste. It will be _sacrilege._

 

Hannibal makes his way to Will’s side in an instant, perching on the edge of the desk as he grabs hold of Will’s arm. The line of blood curves over his finger, warm and alive, and Hannibal knows that the graceful line of his trousers is more than ruined.

 

“Shh, shh, shh...” he hushes Will’s panicked curses, cradling the injured hand. The other man’s eyes widen, but he calms. Lets Hannibal bring the bloodied hand to his mouth.

 

“It’s just a little scratch,” Hannibal murmurs, nostrils flaring as he takes in the intricacies of Will’s scent. Then, carefully watching for any flicker of disgust or fear in Will’s eyes, he slowly flicks the tip of his tongue against the center of the wound.

 

Will Graham whimpers. He flexes his hands in Hannibal’s grip, but he does not try to twist away or deny Hannibal his feast. And he is a feast. Hannibal cannot recall the last time he ate one of his victims raw; his normal fare are lowly pigs, and are as such unworthy of gracing his table without the careful process of cooking and seasoning.

 

This man, on the other hand, is perfection still alive and bleeding. Hannibal licks the wound again, tracing the length of the cut with the flat of his tongue. As he continues on past the injury, tracing the path the blood took down his wrist, Hannibal hears Will’s whine of pain turn into something darker.

 

“You should be more careful with dangerous things,” he sighs against the skin. Hannibal cannot help but trace his way back up to the cut with his mouth, close his lips around its length and suckle another trickle of blood up for his enjoyment. As much as he enjoys the simple taste of Will’s flesh and blood, the reactions his tongue and lips are drawing out of the other man are just as intoxicating.

 

“You should know better, William,” Hannibal continues, speaking between careful licks and sucks to the center of the man’s palm. “than to grab hold of something like that by the sharp end.”

 

Will’s head tips back against the chair, and Hannibal feels the thrill of victory as he pushes his hand into the attention.

 

“It’s just a letter opener...it shouldn’t be so sharp,” he groans. Hannibal notes with even more glee that the front of his slacks are beginning to tent. Hooking one ankle around a leg of his chair, Hannibal pulls Will closer until their legs bump and slide against each other.

 

“Don’t fault the blade,” Hannibal admonishes. “It is its nature to cut, and nothing more.”

 

Will’s eyes fly open at that, and Dr. Lecter finds himself under the scrutiny of the empath’s full attention. He does his best to keep from betraying anything, but what is there left to hide with another mans blood smeared across his face? Sure enough, Will’s eyes widen a fraction as understanding locks into place.

 

Tearing his gaze away from Will’s gaze, he stares down at the offending letter opener, still laying brazen and accusing next to him on the desk. If he can grab it before Will, slice a wide smile across his beautiful throat and get his things together before Jack Crawford and the rest of the force notice Will isn’t answering his calls--

 

Will grabs the weapon with his free hand a fraction of a second before Hannibal, but his fingers do not close around the handle. The man instead forces his hand into a fist around the blade for a second time, crying out as the steel kisses its way into his flesh.

 

Hannibal should push Will to the floor and wrestle the weapon out of his hands. He should kill his friend and run for a country without extradition to the United States. What he does instead is stare at Will’s hand as the other man cuts himself even deeper, dragging his fist along its length before raising his hand palm-up for Hannibal’s inspection.

 

The small thread of affection from before flickers and catches before raging into a consuming inferno in Hannibal’s chest. He does not hide his grin. This is a blood sacrifice to a beloved god. Oh _Will_. What a beautiful creature; he had barely needed any coaxing to shape himself into this perfect thing for Hannibal’s love to devour.

 

“My sweet Will,” he purrs, tongue delicately dipping into the fresh pool of blood.

 

“ _Hannibal_.” It’s a prayer, a curse, and a plea all at the same time. Will twists in his borrowed throne, arousal straining against the fly of his pants. He is something out of myth, wrecked and trembling to be taken.

 

Why should a god deny their worshiper, especially when given such a delectable offering? This is what Hannibal tells himself so that he can ignore the base instincts that drive him to seize Will Graham by the hips and haul him onto his lap.

 

“You--you--” Will gasps as he tries to find his balance on his new seat, hips grinding and circling in Hannibal’s lap. Both of his hands come up to stroke Hannibal’s face. They leave behind twin streaks of blood on the man’s face, and Hannibal cannot bring himself to lament the waste. Let Will baptise him in bloodlust, as long as he never has to give up this creature he now has in his arms.

 

Hannibal closes a hand around Will’s wrist and guides his hand back to his mouth. He licks each of the man’s fingers clean one by one, twisting his tongue around their lengths and bobbing slightly. It’s a prelude, a promise of other ways Hannibal can reward his acolyte, and Will understands, moans beginning anew as his cock twitches against Hannibal’s hip through the layers of cloth. Settling his other hand against the small of Will’s back, he gives the man something to brace against. Will takes the hint and grinds against Hannibal’s erection as he continues to gasp in broken fragments.

 

“You eat--you’re the one who--oh, Hannibal, god don’t stop...”

 

Even with their precarious position on the edge of the desk, the two men are working towards a pace that is quickly pushing both of them towards the point of completion.

 

“Do I need to call my lawyer?” Hannibal growls as he squeezes Will’s ass and forces the man to ride the hard line of his hip. “Once I’m done devouring the last of you?” The twin drives of survival and lust are coursing through Hannibal, and they are both fraying what self-control he has left. He hisses the last sentence with a curl of his lip, and he knows that what Will sees in that moment, it is bloodied and animal. Is all teeth and hunger.

 

Whatever Will sees, it makes him buck and try tear himself in two in the attempt to climb Hannibal and grind down against his cock at the same time. Twisting his fingers into Hannibal’s hair, Will growls right back and licks a broad stripe up the doctor’s cheekbone. Again and again he licks at Hannibal’s face, each broad swipe of his tongue accompanied by more demanding teeth and aggressive noises from the back of his throat.

 

The moment that Hannibal realizes what Will Graham is doing, he comes in his immaculately pressed trousers. _Will is licking his own blood clean from his face._

 

Hannibal forces Will to grind against him as he rides his own orgasm out, moaning soft encouragement as dear, sweet, _good_ Will snarls and bites the last coppery traces of the liquid from his chin. When he comes, he bites down, and Hannibal prays that Will leaves a mark.

 

Both Hannibal and Will are still half draped over the desk, panting and reeking of blood as they come back down from their respective highs. This could be, Hannibal muses, the mark of either a glorious ending or a glorious beginning. Whichever one it was, it all depends on what  Will does next.

 

Positively humming with satisfaction, Hannibal cranes his neck forward and delicately molds his teeth over the shape of Will’s windpipe. A loving caress or a final blow--even he does not know which it will be.

  
  
  


_“What now, good Will?”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
